mad in pursuit ireland

DISPATCHED FROM THE CROSSROADS

So there we were, the front wheels of our Peugot
in the bog, the back wheels not quite touching the nameless one-lane
road cutting across a nameless peninsula in Connemara. Only minutes
before we had realized this was not Route 341.
And, upon attempting to turn around, we had jarringly discovered
that the road's narrow shoulder was not land at all. Oh, crap.

Just the weekend before, the Ghees had taken us to visit the ancient Corlea
Trackway near their home in Longford. Prehistoric inhabitants had gone
through enormous effort to lay oak planks in a broad road across
the bog between two sacred sites. Shortly after completion
the whole thing sank into the bog. Swallowed. In European bogs archeologists
have recovered bodies that indicate human sacrifice and other artifacts
suggesting offerings to... who knows.

Michael Monaghan told us that Brazilian day laborers are hired
in the spring by Galway farmers who need help cutting and turning
turf on their property. Michael is noticing that the Brazilians have
begun wearing signs on their T-shirts: "No Bog." I assumed it
was because the job was bone-chilling and back-breaking, but now
I wonder if it doesn't simply creep them out — like I used to get
creeped out snorkelling in tropical mangrove swamps... too tangled,
too haunted. Something is always watching.

I thought of this at 9:30 on that Wednesday morning, staring at our sunken
front wheels.

A car came by. Two German women. They got out and tried to help us push
but the blonde shook her head and confirmed the obvious: "You need
a tow."

We scratched our heads for a few minutes till a big SUV came by. Another
traveller. He'd be happy to give us a tow, he said, but he had no
rope.

More head-scratching. Gosh, I didn't want to call the Hertz emergency
number and sit by the side of the road all day while a tow truck
drove out from Galway.

A small truck came by and as luck would have it, the driver had a length
of blue nylon rope. He jumped out
and tied the two vehicles together. With the four pushers in front,
me throwing the engine in reverse, and the SUV gunning it, we were
quickly out of the bog, everyone cheerfully shaking hands and waving
goodbye. An amazing international team effort.

As we drove away I felt in my pocket for the piece of worn white beach
glass I found down the coast — a wonderful little worry stone. "Stop
here," I said to Jim and handed him the beach glass to toss into
the bog. Our offering to the bog spirits who let us go.